


Inhale

by rispacooper



Series: Breathing [1]
Category: Psych
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-12
Updated: 2011-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for psychflashfic. Prompt: What are you wearing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inhale

Shawn wouldn't say that he froze at the whisper across the back of his neck; it felt _way_ too still for that. It was more like Evie had put her fingers together and time had stopped—for just a second—and then his heart was beating again, making him hot all over and shake with a rush of adrenaline.

The sun had been out today, sunlight had been warm on the back of his neck just minutes ago, but that hadn't been anything like the wet, warm breath trickling down under his collar and then the heat that followed it. His back and ass were hot, his skin almost prickling with the realization that there was a strong body behind him, and it was inching closer.

He gave an all over, way down low, whole body shiver at the changing temperature, at that _heat_ , and realized he wasn't breathing. He should have flinched. He should have jumped away and then laughed and said something about personal space, but his body knew who it was before his brain did and wouldn't let him move.

Shawn choked quietly, opened his mouth and detected the taste of coffee on his tongue, the scent faintly in the air around him. It wasn't stale or sour, like station coffee should have been, but like the beans themselves, sharp and biting, and a noise slipped out.

Slipped out of _him_ , and that should have been a joke too, but he had been struck mute either by a blond girl with Burt Reynolds as her alien dad who lived in a plastic cube, or by the knowledge that Lassie had stopped off and gotten himself real coffee that morning.

That meant Lassie had woken up early. Shawn knew that about him without exactly questioning why he knew things about Lassie's personal life. Or he hadn't used to question.

The teasing remark was on his tongue. Lassiter had been less likely to shoot the past few weeks, _pleased_ by something, and Shawn ought to ask if he's been getting some. Maybe wonder if he got a cat, or how much Lassie has been paying her, or say he didn't know Lassiter had a sister, but he suddenly didn't want to know if Lassiter was getting laid. He shut his mouth.

For weeks now, Shawn had been laying it on with Lassie. He'd been bored, he'd told himself. He'd been hurt and feeling weird deep inside because Abigail was gone, because Jules was heartbroken but neither of them had seemed to be missing _Shawn_. But the more he'd gone after Lassie's hair, and his ears, and his suits, and his sex life, the better Lassiter's mood had gotten. It was like Bizarro world. A world where Lassiter didn't grab Shawn—much—or manhandle him—as much as he'd used to—or force him against walls to pant into his ear.

No matter what Shawn did, Lassiter had just watched him, and raised his Spock-like eyebrow, and occasionally smirked. The smirk was the worst one. Shawn couldn't figure it out and he couldn't discuss it with Gus because Gus so didn't seem to want to hear any part of his, “I've been bugging Lassiter harder than I ever have before, but Lassiter still isn't reacting like he used to. Do you think Lassie ought to see a doctor?” Or his, “I don't get it, usually Lassie would have me bent over his desk or his car by now, but it's like I have the plague. Why are you looking at me like that, Gus?” or the “I wish Abigail were around. I could take her to that park where Lassiter likes to feed the ducks. Or maybe to the shooting range so we could distract Lassie when he was trying to shoot. And seriously, Gus, what is with that face?” conversations.

But Lassie was with him now, right behind him, standing straight and tall until he leaned in closer to send another slow breath over Shawn's neck, and Shawn knew he'd be having another conversation with Gus tonight whether Gus wanted to or not, and it would be along the lines of, “Gus, I think I'm a lot gayer than occasional—frequent—dreams about dick and checking out the dudes in my porn and loving Billy Zane. I'm think I'm _gay_ gay, or just not good at liking women.” and “Gus I think I've been throwing myself big time at Lassie for years now and I think now he's saying _yes_.”

Yes. Shawn's mind was screaming it in answer. Shawn's body was screaming it too. _Yes_ and YES so hard he couldn't move, just stare blankly at Jules who was too busy with her reports to notice that Shawn was getting weak in the knees at all that breathing, that he had to put a hand to the wall to stay up when Lassie's _mouth_ —and it had to be his mouth—brushed against his ear.

“Mmm, what are you wearing, Spencer?” Lassie's voice rumbled in a purring, growling, _animal_ and Beastmaster-like way and inhaled deliberately to let Shawn know he was being _appreciated_. Not once had Shawn ever thought of using that particular line on a woman, but it was working on him now. Like whoa.

Cowabunga! All sorts of alarms were going off in Shawn's brain, gay and turned on alarms, this was _Lassiter_ alarms, Shawn wasn't moving away alarms. Lassie wasn't the type to break into space bubbles accidentally, so it had to be on purpose how he was standing now, that he'd suddenly come close just to _inhale_ Shawn, and Shawn would be worrying about what it meant except that he was busy fighting a freak urge to turn around, to plaster himself to the suit and lean body and do embarrassingly _girly_ things like arch his neck to expose his throat so Lassie could smell him all he liked and maybe move his mouth a fraction lower, and twine— _twine_ —his fingers through Lassie's hair.

Except Lassie's hair was too short right now.

Shawn wet his lips and tried to think, because he'd been asked a question, and he was supposed to have an answer, a _smart_ answer. He was not supposed to be gasping and thinking about falling against the wall and wondering if he did, would Lassiter follow in and put a hand to his cheek and then kiss him, out of control and crazy rough like he wanted to arrest him or just interrogate him with their pants down.

Shawn wasn't just gay and gay for Lassie, he was _the girl_. He was as slow as normal people to not have gotten that before when _Lassiter_ obviously had. Holy crap! Lassiter _had_ , and was torturing him, on _purpose_ , which was totally not fair, and as soon as Shawn could think clearly, he was going to say something about that, like, “Why didn't you do something before?” and “How long as this been going on?” because Lassiter _knew_ , and “Tell me what smells so good about me, Lass?” and “Step in closer so I can feel if you're reacting to this the way I am and if I'll like that, because I am pretty sure I'll like that _a lot_.”

Or not, because those were stupid things to say, just dumb enough to make him do a minutes too-late panicky leap away and exclaim loudly, “Sheesh, Lass, personal space!” in a voice that was a lot squeaky and high. Lassiter's smirk almost undid him anyway, because that was what the man was doing when Shawn turned around and glanced at him before making himself run away—walk quickly in another direction.

Smirking, like he had one over on Shawn and knew it, like Lassie knew everything here, and Shawn couldn't even manage to explain how he'd missed what had been right in front of his face.

He could still feel Lassiter's eyes on him as he left, a shivery all over heat down his back.


End file.
